


Someday Soon

by WishesComeTrue_NotFree



Category: CSI, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Gen, Trigger warning for abusive relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4317237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WishesComeTrue_NotFree/pseuds/WishesComeTrue_NotFree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shot. My version of the apartment scene in Nesting Dolls. Sara's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someday Soon

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.Net under my other user name (DC-Rachel-Bailey), I haven't stolen anything. I just decided to repost it on here. 
> 
> Based on the apartment scene from Nesting Dolls. This is written from Sara's POV. 
> 
> Trigger warning for domestic violence / abusive relationship / murder of a parent.

I was eight when it started; it wasn't much at first, the odd argument maybe once or twice a week: blazing rows that made the house shake, or that's what it appeared to do; at the time I thought it was how everyone lived. How wrong I was...

By the time I was nine, they were arguing nearly every day, and it made the whole atmosphere at home tense, because it was such a small house the air was choking with tension and fear. They always argued at night; it started when he came back from a night at the local club, more than once he brought a 'friend' home with him and if my mother didn't accept it he got violent, so very violent. I hid upstairs because I was scared of what was happening, I felt guilty knowing there was nothing I could do to save her; every time I heard the sickening smack of flesh on flesh, I cried so much because how do you deal with something like that?

I was eleven when my mother stabbed my father to death; I came home from school, opened the door and my mother was sat on the staircase. It's strange; I can picture her sat there every time I close my eyes: she was pale, her brown eyes were glassy and unfocused. I knew something had happened the moment I saw her, so I went into the living room and there he was lying on the floor. He had a kitchen knife next to him smeared in his blood, such bad blood. She must have killed him a few hours before I got home because the cast off on the walls was dark where the blood had stained the peeling walls. I didn't cry and I didn't miss him. I feel ashamed of saying that now, but it's true, he hurt and broke up our family to me; he was never a true father, one who taught me how to ride a bike or read; he was much happier to go and get pissed at the local club because I didn't matter to him; I was in the way.

The police arrested my mother and that was when she started to cry, slow at first then harder and harder, her body shaking under the strain. I turned away as she was driven off; I didn't want to remember her like that, as the person who killed him, it just didn't seem right. I knew where I was going to end up; I knew the moment the police arrived, when the lady arrived to take me away I couldn't let go of her hand, but I can't remember her name. I took one more glance at that house, the house filled with pain and fear, before I got in the car, to start my new life, even though I knew it would never be the same again.

The day I went to back to school was hard. I always loved school; it had always got me out of the house and I soon found out that, when I concentrated on my work, I was actually quite clever. The stares started the moment I walked through the gates; I had become the girl whose mother stabbed her father to death, those years were hard, the comments in the hallways and the stares in lessons. I began to work harder and harder, as a way for me to escape, and I quickly became top in most of my classes. It was when I moved into my foster home for the first time that the real trouble started...

**Author's Note:**

> Any good?
> 
> I struggle with descriptive writing so I was practicing it when I wrote this.


End file.
